By The Indus

Thou art late, O Moon, Late, I have waited thee long. The nightingale's flown to her nest, Sated with song. The champak hath no odour more To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er-- But my heart it will not rest.

Thou art late, O Love, Late, For the moon is a-wane. The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs, Burns with my pain. The lotus leans her head on the stream-- Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream, Dream ere the night-cool dies?

Thou art late, O Death, Late, For he did not come! A pariah is my heart, Cast from him--dumb! I cannot cry in the jungle's deep-- Is it not time for the Tomb--and Sleep? O Death, strike with thy dart!